Snow Dragon

The Lava Lands are about a half-month's journey from the Bloodaxe Clan's settlement. Originally, Solam estimated he would reach home by mid-October, just before the first snow (Avalon has four distinct seasons, each lasting three months, so October is effectively winter). However, Solam hadn't accounted for the overwhelming hospitality of the folks at the Forge Clan; the sheer volume of gifts they bestowed upon him forced him to travel on foot.

Unsurprisingly, when the first snow began to fall, our Solam was still on the road. With his travel speed hampered by the blizzard, Solam estimated it would take at least another half-month to reach home.

"Ah... there's just too much stuff, and I can't exactly throw it away. This is tricky. I'll just have to take it slow. If I'd known, I would've gotten a pack beast." Solam set up camp in a wind-sheltered depression at the base of a hillside. The hollow resembled a shallow cave, providing excellent protection from the wind and snow.

"The snow is too heavy; I have to rest here for now, otherwise, it'll be easy to lose my way." Solam muttered to himself. In any case, little Saurfang's birthday wasn't until early December, so he had plenty of time and no need to rush.

Solam looked out at the blizzard, sensing the snow wouldn't stop anytime soon. He figured he wouldn't be going anywhere today and would have to wait until tomorrow to assess the situation.

He began his daily routine of meditation, during which he could fully commune with the elements to sharpen his perception of their power. Solam clearly felt the air and water elements were particularly active.

Once his daily meditation concluded, Solam found himself at a loss for what to do. This world lacked handheld consoles, smartphones, or similar gadgets. Usually, he could play cards or chess with others, or at the very least, engage in idle chatter.

But out here in the wilderness, there was nothing to kill time with, so he had no choice but to lie down and sleep—the way most orcs spent the winter.

Solam spread his fur blanket beside the fire and curled up against Frostfang to sleep. It must be said, the dire wolf's fur was quite effective; leaning against Frostfang, he grew warm as toast in no time.

Though he felt no sleepiness, having nothing to do left him to let his mind wander. For some reason, Solam found himself thinking about the adult films from his previous world.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, he felt as though he'd been pent up for too long, to the point of madness. But after a while, he couldn't help but recall scenes involving two or three people. I've really grown up, he thought. It seems I truly need to go out into the world and see what it has to offer. Otherwise, am I really going to end up practicing with my own "Kirin Arm"? That would be too pathetic.

Solam's thoughts then began to drift further.

How did people in this world pass these long, slow nights? The common folk didn't have the luxury of such thoughts; if they could go home and make babies, they were blessed. Most likely, the majority just headed to the local tavern for a drink.

Truth be told, there wasn't much real alcohol in Avalon, only milk wine, and it wasn't very strong. Plus, the orcish race was naturally gifted with an astonishing tolerance for liquor; Solam had yet to see anyone get drunk. People like his grandfather and Blackhand, who had traveled abroad, only missed the high-proof spirits of the outside world. Besides, the orcish milk wine in Avalon had a sour tang that Solam didn't particularly care for.

However, while the alcohol in Avalon was mediocre, the tobacco was excellent. The Forge Clan was the largest producer of tobacco in Avalon. Thinking of this, Solam pulled a cigar from his bag. That's right, a cigar—a masterpiece of his own making. He had specifically asked Old Muller for some dried tobacco leaves and rolled them himself, bit by bit. When he gifted one to Old Blackhand, however, the old man had looked at it with disdain, believing that only loose tobacco could truly convey the essence of the leaf and that rolling it up was a sign of poor taste. Solam initially thought the old guy was talking nonsense, but when he asked others, he found they couldn't accept the method either. This surprised Solam; he hadn't expected his knowledge from his past life to be so ineffective.

"Phew." Solam lit the cigar and took a deep drag. Although smoking was bad for one's health, with Solam's constitution, it was a trivial matter. He figured he could smoke ten cigars a day and still be perfectly fine.

Watching the smoke drift away, Solam wondered how the nobles killed time. Did they just make babies too?

Based on the off-color jokes Old Blackhand had told him, which were all about the nobility, it was clear that the nobles of this world were quite decadent. Then again, maybe they spent their nights reading.

Solam wanted to read to pass the time, but there wasn't a single book in Avalon. At this thought, he realized he was still illiterate.

This was intolerable. In his past life, an illiterate person was a rare specimen; in that world, being illiterate was synonymous with being an idiot, at least in most regions. But where could Solam go to learn? There were very few people in Avalon who could read; most legends and history were passed down orally.

Just as Solam's thoughts were running wild like a runaway horse, a massive roar suddenly echoed from the distance, causing both Solam and Frostfang to bolt upright.

"That sounds like a dragon's roar." Solam identified the sound.

There were dragons in Avalon, but not the intelligent, titanic kind. Most were wyverns or similar creatures; while clever, they hadn't transcended the realm of beasts.

These wyverns were widely distributed across Avalon in many varieties. For instance, the Lava Wyvern that inhabited the Lava Lands—Solam had seen one with his own eyes. The entire Forge Clan's warrior force had been mobilized, and it took a great deal of effort to take it down, resulting in several deaths and many injuries. Generally, such creatures wouldn't approach orc settlements. Once discovered, nearby orc clans would spare no cost to kill them, as wyverns had voracious appetites, capable of devouring hundreds of pounds of meat in one sitting, and their ferocious temperaments posed a massive threat to both humans and orcs.

Solam and Frostfang held their breath. Very few wyverns remained active in this weather; most hibernated during the winter. The only kind that moved during such blizzards was the Snow Dragon—a wyvern that lived above the high-mountain snow line.

It had no scales, only snow-white fur like a mammal. Calling it a "dragon" was a bit of a stretch, as its head differed significantly from typical dragon species, resembling a bird of prey more than anything, though it possessed horns. Its mouth was also very bird-like, lacking sharp teeth. Its wings were not leathery membranes but were closer to those of a bird. However, its roar was very similar to a dragon's, hence the name.

This monster loved to leave the high mountains for the plains during blizzards, which was why it was called a Snow Dragon. Yet, this creature was far stronger than an average wyvern. First, its size was a notch larger, its speed was astonishing, and it was viciously aggressive. Nothing living was off its menu; in a blizzard, it would even destroy orc pens to snatch up Thunder Beasts for food.

If you were targeted by one in this weather, it was nearly impossible to escape. Despite lacking fangs, its beak could easily snap metal weapons into pieces. To put it in perspective, tearing a healthy adult Snow Tiger into shreds was child's play for a Snow Dragon. More importantly, the Snow Dragon could cast spell-like abilities, leaving ordinary warriors with little recourse. (A Snow Dragon is over 15 meters long including its tail, weighing over 3,000 pounds. Strength: 22, Intelligence: 8, Agility: 20, Constitution: 20, Perception: 15, Charisma: 16)

Solam had no desire to challenge a Snow Dragon in this season; it was too dangerous. Once he guessed it was a Snow Dragon, he immediately extinguished his fire.

"ROAR!" Another massive roar, much closer than the last. One could hear the fury in the sound; clearly, the Snow Dragon had run into trouble. Could someone be fighting it?

Solam hesitated. If other orcs were truly battling this Snow Dragon, he couldn't just hide here; that went against the values of a Shaman, and indeed, any orc of Avalon.

Solam certainly wasn't afraid of a fight—in fact, he didn't even possess that emotion—but he wasn't sure if it was actually orcs fighting the beast. If the Snow Dragon was fighting some other predator, his charging in would be a suicidal surprise.

Just then, a "BOOM" of an explosion rang out. An explosion meant it was likely orcs; after all, few beasts could create such a disturbance.

Solam immediately slung his axe onto his back, gripped his warhammer, and signaled Frostfang with his mind to remain silent. They crept forward, looking for an opportunity to strike the Snow Dragon from behind.

Solam and Frostfang moved quickly toward the source of the roars. The Snow Dragon's cries were becoming increasingly frantic; the battle was clearly intense.

They hadn't gone far before they saw the Snow Dragon atop a hillside. The beast was over 17 meters long and covered in wounds of all sizes, periodically diving from the air to attack.

As Solam drew closer, he saw that the figure fighting the Snow Dragon was indeed a person. Though wrapped in a black cloak, making their identity unclear, they were definitely not a beast, so Solam stopped worrying about who the figure was and kept his eyes locked on the Snow Dragon. Seeing that the figure wasn't yet at their limit, Solam had time to consider how to land a heavy blow on the beast.

First, he had to slow the monster down; its speed was no joke. Without slowing it, let alone defeating it, even hitting it would be difficult. Solam decided he would throw Thor's Hammer to strike its head, and while it was stunned, he would use his axe to strike its wings or long neck, aiming to cripple it in one go.

With his plan set, Solam told Frostfang to wait in place—it wouldn't be of much help anyway—and he crept closer to the battlefield, knowing that a shorter distance would improve his odds.